


Just Us And Nobody Else

by WhatWldMrsWeasleyDo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Death, Exhibitionism, Hand Jobs, Implicit Off-Screen Rape, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Sex, Switching, Torture, Violence, War, skin disease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22834537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatWldMrsWeasleyDo/pseuds/WhatWldMrsWeasleyDo
Summary: Voldemort gives each of his Death Eaters a prisoner to look after. Ron finds himself at Draco Malfoy’s mercy.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Ron Weasley
Comments: 5
Kudos: 41
Collections: Ron/Draco Fest - Better Together





	Just Us And Nobody Else

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much to reeby10 for the inspiring prompt. Huge thanks to fangqueen for modding this fest and emansil for beta reading and very good advice.

The stone floor was cold and dusty under Ron’s aching knees and elbows. Iron manacles chafed and weighed down his wrists. The light was too low to see anything clearly, but his head was pressed at such an angle between other bodies that he would have been unable to see much anyway. His thoughts were sluggish and jumbled, his memories returning slowly. A sedating charm must have been wearing off.

Suddenly there was a light too bright for eyes accustomed to the darkness of cellars. Flinching and jerking surrounded him. He lowered his lids, soundlessly bit back his discomfort. These past few years had drilled into him the habit of disguising any weakness, of making no noise. He was wary; he almost always was wary these days.

A cold, high voice echoed through the air above them: “See. This is what traitors look like. These are the vermin who have delayed our victory by three, long years. They resisted at the Battle of Hogwarts, forcing us to retire and regroup. Since then, they have hidden like rats in barns and sewers, making nuisances of themselves, maiming and murdering the noble friends who fought beside us. Even my pet snake was not spared their cruelty. We will no longer be plagued by them. See! Here they lie, flushed out, wandless, weaponless and tied up tight.”

Cruel laughter had started up. Many voices. They came from everywhere and seemed to bounce around, mapping their surroundings like radar. Ron sensed a large room with a high ceiling. He was remembering the invasion of Grimmauld Place, the hurried Disapparition to Shell Cottage, straight into another party of Death Eaters, then being grabbed and dragged, his wand snatched. The laughter stopped abruptly, as though at a sign.

“Only one remains at large,” the high voice continued. Ron’s brain was now sufficiently awake to assign it to Voldemort. “But rest assured, we will soon have the arch traitor, the infuriating Enemy Number One, also under our control. He will not continue to be the Boy Who Lives for very much longer!”

This statement was greeted by jeers, cheers and more laughter. Ron barely heard it over the increased beating of his own heart. So: Harry was still alive and free!

The noises faded out gradually. There was a pause. Ron managed to straighten one arm. He tensed, waited, ready to be killed, while at the same time foolishly, desperately, hoping for a last-minute rescue. 

“The question remains, my loyal Death Eaters, the very important question, as to what we should do with this barely-human detritus.”

“Kill them!” screamed a woman. It might have been Bellatrix LeStrange, but it could as easily have been one of the young acolytes she had acquired over the last couple of years: the Slytherin girls and impressionable young women of Knockturn who idolised the Dark Lord’s favourite.

“We could kill them, couldn’t we?” Voldemort mused. 

Ron’s thoughts tripped over themselves. Was there another option? He tried not to hope. 

“Or…” there was a long, heavy pause. “We could show mercy.” 

A hissing started up and then died again. The whole room waited. The very air seemed to hold its breath. Was this the closest Voldemort came to joking? Was it something else? Was it merely the cruelty of hope given to be snatched again? Was there something worse than death in store? Finally, Voldemort resumed his speech: “It would be an awful lot of work for us to keep them prisoners. I don’t think they are worth it. And yet, it does seem a shame to spill so much Wizarding blood, some of it perfectly Pure.”

Chiming footsteps of leather on stone filled the silence. Some of the bodies around Ron shifted, turned. Ron tried to look up, too. From under a rag-draped armpit he suddenly caught sight of Hermione on the crowded floor. Her face was grey with grime and pallor and her hair had been hacked off, but it was definitely her. Then a thigh further off changed angle and he couldn’t see her anymore.

“I have a plan, my Pure and dedicated followers, and this plan involves you. Not all of you. Only the unmarried ones. Take a step forward, those of my Death Eaters who are not yet Bound.”

Ron tried to force his mind to straighten itself out so he could make sense of what the Dark Lord was saying. Shuffling sounded above and to the sides. He strained to see who was there. Black-clad figures in Death Eater masks were now visible in a circle over their heads. The Order of the Phoenix Resistance members seemed to be being held in some kind of pit. Ron swallowed back his instinctive panic.

“Good,” said Voldemort. “Very good. I think we have the numbers to make this work. Come through with me now and we will make arrangements.”

Gloom descended again. Unconsciousness overwhelmed Ron. 

He woke in a white space. He was sitting, on the floor still, but upright now, with enough room around him to be able to see neat rows of other sitting backs. They were wearing white cloaks over their worn-out robes and tattered Muggle clothes. He was still too drowsy to try to make sense of it. The walls were white and so were the ceiling and what he could see of the floor. He could not move, but he could tell that the manacles had gone. There was a rumbling. It sounded like a heavy door opening somewhere behind him. Fear tried to crawl up from his guts, but he couldn’t feel it properly. Crimson moved into the peripheries of his vision. People in red robes. They walked round the edges of the seated crowd.

“Now,” said Voldemort.

The people in red moved in amongst the prisoners. Velvet swept in front of his face, into his eyes which would not blink.. Then his arm was clasped. The person in front of him ducked down to kneeling. He recognised the face. Draco Malfoy – looking very solemn. Ron, still frozen, stared at him. Malfoy moved the angle of his own face until their eyes were looking into each other’s. Ice grey. Ron felt his arm being twisted around Malfoy’s smooth, warm skin. Sensation was returning, but slowly, very slowly. His mind woke again slowly too; he glimpsed the edges of memories.

Words were intoned. Ron was too tired to make sense of them. His own mouth moved. He wasn’t moving it himself and he didn’t know what he was saying. Looseness flowed into his muscles, and then there were other feelings – cold and grit and ache – lifting his mental fog. 

He looked round for Hermione. She was three rows forward, being pulled to her feet by someone square and middle-aged and – no! Was that Amycus Carrow? Fear spiked Ron’s stomach, he tried to think, to move his legs, but he couldn’t.

Ron’s arm was wrenched. He saw Malfoy’s mouth in a determined line, looked up again, saw Hermione dragged from the room. Definitely that sadist Carrow. He felt nauseous. 

Cold heaviness scratched his neck. Firm fingers gripped his upper arm. He stood on wobbly legs.

There was a chain coming from his throat, no, from a metal collar round his neck. Draco Malfoy was pulling it. Ron followed. It took his full concentration to keep himself from tripping over. They pushed past bodies, past human stench and velvet softness. They reached an enormous silver door. More people, wet grass under Ron’s bare feet. Before the pain of iciness penetrated, it had gone. His feet felt warm and dry, though, looking down, he could still see water splashing onto them and the blades of grass flattening underneath.

He smelled cool fresh air and realised that he had been missing it. Raising his head, the metal collar scuffing his neck lightly as he moved, he could see a full, cloudy, grey sky. 

“Keep your head down,” Malfoy muttered. “Shuffle.”

Narcissa Malfoy was there. She swiftly embraced her son, let go and started to speak, but he raised a hand.

“I’ve said I won’t discuss it. Home now.”

Her husband, Lucius, was just behind her. They both nodded, heads lowered, looking up at their son, who placed an arm round Ron’s waist. Ron sank his head tiredly onto the red velvet at Malfoy’s shoulder. He smelled so clean; Ron became aware of his own odour. Then suddenly there was a gut-pulling dizziness. He couldn’t even feel the collar, the velvet, the body against him for a few seconds. Into this void fell the fear, anger and despair which the sedative spell must still have been supressing.

Then they stood on gravel beside a large gate. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy appeared beside them. Their son stepped away from Ron, keeping hold of the chain. He tapped the gates with his wand. They opened slowly. Nobody else moved. 

“Perhaps we could come in for a moment?” Narcissa asked.

Draco Malfoy sighed sharply. “You’re lucky to have use of the lodge. The last thing I want is you two in the way while I try out my new toy.”

Narcissa reached out an arm, her eyes brimming, but Lucius pulled her back, saying, “Yes, Lord Malfoy.”

Then the chain tugged Ron round, pulling him through the gates. He stumbled. Malfoy did not slow. Ron righted himself, staggering onto gravel which bit into the soles of his feet, until suddenly it didn’t.

“Head lowered,” Draco muttered. “Shoulders slumped.”

Ron did his best, though he was stumbling, too. He thought he might as well obey instructions until he worked out a plan of his own. He was so confused. He wasn’t dead, though, and he had thought he was going to be by now, so that, at least, was hopeful. 

He did not hear Mr and Mrs Malfoy move away, so Ron was pretty sure that they stood watching them all the slow way up the drive towards the large front doors, which opened as they approached them. Ron watched his filthy feet climb stone steps which should have felt cold and rough. He walked into a chandelier-lit marble hall, so bright it hurt his tired eyes. He stood still as the front doors closed slowly behind him.

Then Draco’s arms were round him, holding tightly. His own hands gripped slim shoulders and stroked silky hair.

Draco was whispering, “Are you hurt, love? I’m so sorry about the collar. Does it chafe? I cast a cushioning charm, but I had to keep it undetectable. I thought it would help appearances. Let’s get it off you.”

Ron mumbled over him, “You did it. How did you? What did you do?”

Draco raised his wand to the collar (which sprang open), gasped, then he said “Accio Dittany.”

“It’s fine; it’s fine,” Ron said. He gripped Malfoy’s waist under the red velvet cloak. He had been drowning, but now clung to his dry land.

“Are you hungry? You must be. Tired, thirsty?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve got you. It doesn’t matter.” He stroked feverishly at Draco’s torso. “Just us and nobody else,” he whispered.

“Just us and nobody else,” Malfoy repeated, dabbing dittany and kisses onto Ron’s skin. “Just us and nobody else. We managed it. It worked.”

“What happened?” Ron asked. “What’s happening?”

“Let’s get you fed and clean you up while I explain everything. Grulti!” he called.

With a pop, a House Elf appeared.

“Oh, House Elves!” Ron muttered into Malfoy’s shoulder. “House Elves are brilliant.”

“Grulti – easily digestible food to the master bedroom. Invalid food.”

“I’m not an invalid,” Ron protested as Grulti disappeared again. 

Draco lifted Ron’s feet, tapped at the soles and applied some dittany round the ankles. “You’ll need to be careful for a few days. Walk or side-along?”

Ron felt queasy at the thought of Side-Along Apparition. “Wish I had a wand,” he said. “Walk.”

Draco placed Ron’s arm over his shoulders and they began the slow, supported walk up the grand, deeply carpeted stairs.

“You can’t use a wand without it showing up on a trace, I’m afraid. Also, I’m fairly sure certain words have been targeted. We need to be careful not to trigger a spying spell. The one in control is zealous. He can’t monitor everyone – too many of you – but there are names particularly, we can only guess which, which will hone him onto our conversations.”

“Shit.” Ron was uneasy again. The things he didn’t want to think about began to emerge. He tried to push them way.

“We’ll be fine if we are careful. Just us and nobody else.”

“Just us and nobody else,” Ron said. Their special phrase soothed him and brought him back to the moment. “Right.” 

There was no point in dwelling on bad things when life had been so full of them for the three years since the Battle of Hogwarts had ended in a stalemate. After the Massacre of Magical Children at Charnock Richard, which had been the day after they’d found Charlie’s blackened, bloated corpse, and only a week after the botched attempt to rescue the Lovegoods had resulted in the broadcast of their torture, Ron had come to the realisation that he was only going to be able to survive such things with his wits intact (unlike poor Lee Jordan), if he ignored the worst parts of life and concentrated on what few pleasures there were. He had tried to persuade Parvarti to do the same, but she had ended up killing herself, which had made him all the more convinced that suppression was the path to survival.

“Nearly there,” Draco soothed. They reached the top of the stairs. “Bath, food or bed first?”

“Mmm, bed!”

“To sleep.”

“Eventually.”

Draco’s chuckle reverberated through Ron’s head. 

Large, gilded double doors opened onto a sumptuous room dominated by a huge four-poster bed draped with green silk. Ron staggered over and collapsed onto it while Draco closed and locked the doors. Every single one of Ron’s nerves sank into comfort. Here was pleasure worth concentrating on! But now that nothing ached, he became aware of his hunger. There was a salty smell. He turned his head towards it. A large wooden tray laden with tiny steaming tureens was hovering across the room towards him. Ron closed his tired eyes. His mouth watered.

“Come on, stupid, sit up or you’ll choke,” Draco said softly.

Draco’s voice was another of life’s pleasures. Draco’s bed smelled of Draco. Ron felt lovely tingles of arousal. He wanted those feelings to be mutual, but he didn’t feel very attractive just now.

“I stink,” Ron complained. He obediently shuffled upright against the plump pillows. It seemed a bit of a shame when they were so clean and smelled so nice. 

“Correct.” Settling beside him, Draco picked up Ron’s hands one by one to cast cleansing spells over them. He kissed both of their backs when he was done.

“So, tell me what just happened,” Ron said.

Draco carefully skimmed a soup spoon over the surface of the thick, green liquid in one of the little pots. “Well,” he said. He drew the word out and his thin lips twitched a smile. He fed the soup into Ron’s mouth. It was delicious: leek maybe, but other, subtle herby flavours too. Draco watched as Ron swallowed, then he finished his sentence, “Firstly, we are Bonded.”

Ron’s thoughts crashed. Then his heart raced. He took Draco’s face between his hands and kissed his cheeks once, twice, three times.

“Bloody Hell! I was so sedated I’ve missed my own Bonding Ceremony.”

“Never mind.” Draco prepared him another spoonful and fed him again, this time with something orange and carroty. “We can have a big party later when everything has settled and reaffirm our vows then.”

“I could take your name. I think I’d probably better.”

“Mmm. I guess you’re Lady Malfoy now.”

“I’m really not. Yeah, what is that Lord Malfoy thing? That’s what your dad called you.”

Draco looked unexpectedly sad at that. “It’s Mummy I really feel sorry for. But I can’t have her here, not with us. I mean, she’d notice, wouldn’t she? She’d work out how we feel about each other, how long we’ve been together. She might not tell anyone, but he might well.”

“Just us and nobody else.”

“Yes. Just us and nobody else. The lodge is perfectly comfortable.” Draco lifted the lid of another tureen to poke at its brown gravy. His voice was firm with resolve as he added, “And Merlin knows what the controlling one would do to them if I wasn’t keeping them safely out of his way.” He fed Ron something beefy. “He’s very disappointed in Father: stripped him of the inheritance, rewarded me with it, gave me the house and a title on top. Probably to rub salt in for Father.”

“He’s pleased with you, then?”

Lord Malfoy kissed Ron on the end of his nose. “Yes. Because of you.”

“Right. I thought I was supposed to be safe.”

“You would have been if you’d stayed at… at that certain house. The raiding party on the cottage hadn’t been given the orders. I mean it’s worked out alright now and my petition on your behalf will be being heard soon—” 

“I couldn’t stay there. Bloody Greyback went for me. Herm— that particular witch whisked us off.”

“Unbelievable! Bloody maverick werewolf! That’s insubordination. I’ll report him. Thank goodness he wasn’t allocated a bond-mate.”

“Who else is Bonded then?” Ron settled back. He was starting to feel nauseous. He’d only had a few spoonfuls. That was ridiculous. Draco must have been right about the invalid food.

Draco nudged the tray away. He ran his wand over Ron’s hair. Ron’s head stopped itching; he felt cleaner. Draco kissed the top of his head.

“Pretty much everybody. The one in charge says he’s being merciful and sparing magical blood but, to be honest, you are all bait. He is keeping you alive to lure out the... well, your best friend.”

“So that person got away then?”

“Right. He is the one most desired to be caught,” Draco spoke increasingly slowly, thinking through each word before he uttered it. “That’s why you have all been kept alive. Otherwise that person wouldn’t be motivated to break cover.”

The cleansing spell spilled from Ron’s hair and ran over his face and down to his neck. They looked at each other a moment.

“But the thing is, that he can’t trust any of you. I mean, he could trust you, which I’m sure he’ll realise once he’s studied my petition, but not the rest. He can’t keep watch over all of you himself, so he’s enlisted Death Eaters to, well, effectively, keep one member each of um, your, um, organisation, under house arrest.”

“By Bonding each one of us to one of you?”

“Yes.”

“So how did you manage to make sure you got allocated to me? This could have been awful.”

“I got preferential treatment. First choice. Because of the information you gave me, which I passed on.”

“So – because I betrayed my friends?”

“Don’t call it that. We stopped the war! It would have ground on for years more and everyone would have died anyway. Our plan worked We have ended it all. Just us and nobody else, remember?”

Ron was allowing himself to be comforted by that when he remembered suddenly: “She was with that sadist Carrow. Oh, Hecate! What have I done?”

“Just us and nobody else. Just us and nobody else. She’s a very resourceful young lady. I’m sure she’ll be fine.” Draco stroked Ron’s back. “We were all doomed. Every last person in Britain, probably the world eventually. We’ve saved as many people as we ever could have done – just the two of us – and we are together. We knew all along we could never aim for more than that. It was hopeless. We salvaged something.”

“I know. I know. Just us and nobody else.” Ron tried to banish images of what Hermione might be suffering in that moment. And what of his family? Who was still alive? Who was in hiding? Who was Bonded and to whom? He needed a glass of water. There was one on the tray. He pointed at it, croaking “Accio”, but of course it did not come. 

Draco had to summon it. “Once the bond is complete,” he said, handing it to Ron, “You’ll be able to use one of my wands. The trace won’t be able to distinguish us as people.”

“Really?” Ron’s hope damped his concerns. “It’s not complete yet? How do we –?”

Draco smiled slyly. Ron’s T-shirt evaporated with a twist of smoke.

“Consummation, of course,” he said in a throaty whisper. “If that wouldn’t be too much of a hardship?”

Ron laughed. How glorious to get what he wanted by doing what he wanted most to do.

“When you’ve got your strength back, of course,” Draco added. “Although…”

“Although?”

“All you really have to do is lie down.”

“It has to be that way round?”

“Only for this time.”

“I’m not complaining.”

“I didn’t think you would be.”

“Well. You know, I think I might just have strength enough for that.”

Ron lay flat while Malfoy rapidly destroyed the rest of his clothes and sent soapy, warm sensations over his entire skin.

“In a bed!” Ron murmured.

“Yes. We can see what that’s like.” Draco kissed the soft creases of Ron’s thighs. “Not that it wasn’t wonderful in doorways and bomb sites.”

“Mmmm,” Ron agreed, running his fingers over Malfoy’s shoulders. “In forests and graveyards.”

“We won’t have to run away afterwards, back to our separate cold camp beds in separate tents and billets.” He lifted Ron’s knees onto his shoulders, gazed down for a moment, then took hold of Ron’s hard cock. “Ever again.”

Ron looked up at Draco as he prepared him, loving every concentrated line on his face. He closed his eyes and sank into the sensations as Draco gently entered him.

When Ron woke it took a while for him to remember where he was. The curtains were heavy, so only a thin strip of sunlight entered the room. He could see little by it. There was a warmth along his side. At first he assumed he was squashed into yet another crowded tent and tried to remember what today’s mission was. Then he realised that he was naked. Draco’s thigh was draped over his, and that was naked, too. The events of recent days flooded back to him. He couldn’t even try to feel anything but happy.

Ron rolled onto Draco, kissing him until he was fully awake, then repaying his attentions from the night before by fucking him slowly and lovingly.

Afterwards, he was starving. Draco summoned House Elves to bring porridge. Ron wanted bacon, but Draco insisted that they should start with porridge. Ron was able to feed himself, which felt like an achievement, but he could only manage three mouthfuls before feeling queasy again.

“Did I explain to you about how Supervised Bonding differs from Traditional Bonding?” Draco asked.

“No. Why can’t I eat properly? I love eating.”

“You’ll get there. You just need to reintroduce food slowly. You were starved under sedation for quite a while.” Malfoy poured out two cups of steaming coffee. “So, you know what happens with Traditional Bonding, right?”

“Not really,” Ron mumbled into a pillow. “We never went in for that Purebred crap.”

Malfoy made a shocked little tutting noise. “Your parents have so much to answer for!”

Not for the first time since falling for Draco, Ron wondered whether, in fact, it was true that they did. He couldn’t be sure anymore, after all the suffering they’d all endured fighting against it, whether the old, Pure ideas hadn’t been right all along. They still didn’t feel right but, after all, might that not just be because that was what he’d been brought up to think? 

“Well, let me see. So…” Draco listed the following tonelessly, as though bored by its obviousness, “if consummation fails to occur within three days then a blue rash appears, after a week both parties die – which doesn’t apply to us so never mind. The magical signatures of both parties become indistinguishable to traces, spell-caster identification etc – which means nobody can stop you from using a wand anymore (oh yeah, have a look in the drawer next to you), if one bonded partner dies so does the other one, all wealth and property–” 

“Hang on a minute – if one of us dies then the other – what? – just drops dead?”

“Well yes, obviously. We are Bonded.” Malfoy paused, frowned. “You wouldn’t want to live on without me, would you? I don’t want to live without you.”

“Yeah. No. Of course. But I mean…” Ron shifted uncomfortably. It was a bit much to get his head around. He didn’t want to think of Malfoy dying, but the idea that it would be a death sentence for him too made him feel a new type of nausea. And he’d only just got over the food sickness. Malfoy looked hurt, though, so Ron stroked his upper arm and tried to change the subject, asking softly, “So how is Supervised Bonding different?” because that was what Malfoy clearly wanted to talk about.

“Right, so: It was invented by some of the old patriarchs who oversaw arranged marriages, to keep track of what was happening to their daughters, and prove the parentage of heirs.” Malfoy smiled softly, warming to his subject. “Also – it played an important part in some of the political marriages used to join clans and, later, families.”

Ron stopped himself from saying that Purebloods were weird, because he didn’t want to annoy Malfoy again. He never wanted to annoy him. He only wanted to make him happy. They finally had it in their power to make each other happy. He mustn’t squander that.

Malfoy continued: “In this case the, you know, one in charge of everything, is acting as Head of Family, and has cast all the Bonds in such a way that he can keep track of such things as where couples are geographically, and whether they are together, whether full penetrative consummation has taken place, and probably—”

Ron couldn’t stop himself from interrupting again, “Ew! You mean he knew we were—oh, yuck! That’s like—it’s like—”

Malfoy was looking very stern.

Ron finished limply, “Well, it’s like he was watching us doing it. It’s very off-putting.”

“Get over it,” Draco said. “The alternatives are worse.”

“Sorry. Sorry. Yeah, in the scheme of things. What else can he do?”

“Well, there’s the Word Trace. He can listen in whenever he chooses, but if we avoid the key words he should have too many other couples to monitor to hone in on us. There’s probably more, but I don’t know. I’ve read up about it. There’s a lot of scope and, as you know, he is magically gifted and very inventive, so he could well have introduced new elements.” Malfoy shrugged. “Look in the drawer.”

Ron sat upright and twisted round. There was a dark wood cabinet on his side of the bed, with a heavy silver knob in the shape of a peacock. He pulled on it and the drawer slid open. Inside there was a twisted length of white wood.

“A wand, a wand, oh yes!” He had forgotten that he was going to be able to use one. He had missed it so much. He snatched it out of the drawer and carefully shaped a grip around it.

“You like it?”

“I love it! How did you get it? Whose was it?”

Draco shrugged. “A lot of people have passed through here in the last few years. It was Headquarters for a while, remember? One of them left it behind.”

Ron tentatively cast _wingardium leviosa_ on his porridge bowl. It didn’t explode or hit him in the face; it gracefully rose above the bed, then Ron successfully levitated it onto the tray. He breathed out, only then realising that he had been holding his breath. “It feels so good to be able to do magic again.” He kissed Draco. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s my genuine pleasure, my dearest. It’s so lovely to see you happy.”

“A wand shouldn’t be necessary, of course, but I’m not up to doing magic without it.”

“Of course it’s necessary.”

“Theoretically, though, it just channels the magic; there ought to be a way for us to learn to do that ourselves.”

“Rubbish,” Draco said.

“No, like, you know, the uncontrolled magic of small children. They don’t have wands.”

“You Blood Traitors do talk some absolute tripe. Where did you get this idea from?”

“Oh. You know. Her.”

Draco pursed his lips and turned away. “Your clever ex. I see.”

“She’s been a long time ex. I don’t know why you’re so jealous of her. We were only together a few months. That relationship was all build-up. You know that. Nothing like what you and I have had since that drunken night in Goathland.”

“Never would have happened if you hadn’t been in disguise, either. Such a surprise in the morning. I’m so grateful to that glamour of yours.”

They had been warned against drinking alcohol when on spying missions, but that night, yet again, Ron’s target had left the inn before he had even got there. Draco had approached, not knowing who he was, which Ron had found hilarious. His initial plan had been to play along just so he could take the amusing story back to camp, in lieu of actual information. But he had been so lonely at that time, so sad, and Draco had looked beautiful in the candlelight. Ron had been too drunk to resist being led up a ladder into a stable loft, but not drunk enough to stop him from taking his time taking Draco’s virginity.

By the morning, of course, the glamour had worn off, as he’d realised from Draco’s stunned expression when he woke. Draco could have, probably should have for his own safety’s sake, turned Ron over to Snatchers.

“But I couldn’t,” he had admitted some months later. “Not when you’d been so lovely to me. And I wanted – I wanted – Well, it was the most ridiculous thing, but I wanted to believe that we might do that together again some time.”

“But it wasn’t ridiculous, was it?” Ron had replied then, huddled under their shared blanket in the basement of the ruined St Mungo’s. “Because we have done now.”

“I had to come and find you. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“I’m very glad. Now, we’d better gather the medical supplies we’ve both volunteered to loot and get back before we’re missed. How about we see each other in Toll’s Meadow, Wymondham in three weeks?”

“I’ll try to get there at midnight,” Draco had said.

The nights of furtive meetings like that were over now. Ron smiled to himself. They were Bonded now, together for ever in luxurious comfort. He cast a few simple, completely unnecessary spells for half an hour, while Draco commanded the House Elves to run them an enormous bubble bath in the black marble bathroom. When Draco accused him of playing, Ron defended himself by explaining how important it was to get the feel of someone else’s wand. Actually, he was just revelling in being able to do magic again.

They fucked in the bath, of course, then had lunch which they finished off by fellating each other simultaneously (“Why can’t you just call it ‘69’, Draco?” Ron wanted to ask). Ron then fell into a luxurious sleep which lasted all afternoon. He woke with a raging hard-on (“Why can’t you call it something nice like ‘arousal’, Ron?” Draco would have asked) and went searching for Draco.

The Manor was enormous. Ron had always known that of course, but it had been a terrifying fact when he had been a prisoner here, a source of resentment when they had been schoolfellows, a criticism when his parents had discussed it during his childhood, and the subject of occasional wistful yearning by his lover for the last year. Now it filled him with deep joy, because these long corridors, thick carpets and high ceilings were his. He wasn’t just safe, he was as comfortable as anyone ever could be. Home.

Still, he avoided the cellars and the sitting room, because there was no point in inviting bad memories. He forced himself not to wonder what was happening to his family and friends.

He found Draco in the study, looking small against the oversized portraits of his quietly disapproving ancestors and the huge tomes on the shelves. The room was dominated by an enormous polished wooden desk. Scrolls were piled in the top tray of a filigree-work golden basket at its centre.

Draco turned slowly towards Ron. He smiled but did not move. Ron strode into the room, horniness and avarice forgotten at the sight of his beloved looking lost and sad. He encircled Draco’s slim form with his arms. They stood there like that for a moment, until Draco said, “Thanks,” quietly.

“Ok?” Ron asked.

“There’s just all sorts of things to do with the estate which I really ought to get on with sorting out. Paperwork, maintenance, decisions. Father used to deal with it all, but it’s my responsibility now. He’s left some messes for me to sort out. I don’t know where to start.” Draco indicated the scrolls. “He never had doubts about his ability, just thought, you know, that all his decisions must be correct, because he had the absolute inherited right to make them. He got some things spectacularly wrong, but he was decisive at least. I don’t know whether I’m going to manage it.”

“There are a lot of other things going on right now. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I’m angry with him for many reasons. But, pathetic as it sounds, I’m still in awe of him.”

“You know what you should do?” Ron asked.

Draco looked up at him.

“To remind yourself that you are a better man than your father, you should get one up on him by doing something he would thoroughly disapprove of.”

“Yeah, I think falling in love with a Blood Traitor already covered that. Especially a male one.”

“Which is exactly why you should permanently mark this territory as yours by fucking me on his desk.”

“Mmm.” Draco eyed its shining surface. “Or, better still, why don’t I really disgrace the family name by getting fucked across it?”

Ron looked at the expansive surface of the desk. He looked at the mischief on Draco’s beautiful face, which he took between his hands to kiss him deep and long, tongues entwining and battling and moving together.

He became aware of clucking noises. When they broke for air, and for Draco to sag against him, he looked round to see the source. It was the portraits tutting.

“Fuck you!” Draco whispered. He spun on his heels to address them, his voice getting louder and louder: “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you all!”

“Or better yet…” Ron whispered in his ear.

Draco looked into his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “Better yet, fuck me.”

He flung his robes off over his head. His ancestors’ images gasped in shock. He flung himself, face down, wearing only his underpants, onto the desk. His pale skin contrasted with the dark wood. Ron ran his gaze along his lover’s body’s shapes. There was nobody in the world as gorgeous as Draco – so noble and proud, but so wanton when he wanted to be.

The portraits protested. Ron eased off the underpants. Slowly. Defiantly. He leaned down to lick at the bare flesh of Draco’s buttocks as it appeared. Two of the portrait ancestors left with a noisy swishing of skirts. Two others remonstrated. They had no hold over Draco anymore, though. Ron was the only person Draco cared about, would listen to, would consider. It was Ron who owned him. He felt powerful. He ached with the need to take Draco, to possess him, here, so Draco wouldn’t fear this room anymore. 

Ron pulled off his own nightshirt and climbed on top of Draco’s warm, taut body. They made hard, fast love to a steady rhythm of berating and threats, which just turned Ron on even more. He and Draco screamed their climaxes at the same time and then collapsed flat on their bare backs, side by side, to cool down.

“I thought,” said Ron after a few minutes, “That Purebloods disapproved of homosexuality.”

“Absolutely. Listen to all the lovely disapproval.” Draco stuck his tongue out at an apoplectic portrait of a large-nosed, grey-wigged witch. “Do you care?”

“I just don’t get why whatshisname has Bonded us two blokes together then.”

“Oh well. Needs must.” Draco kicked a scroll onto the floor. It squeaked as though offended. “Not enough females in our lot, and more males than females among the rebels, too. The old sexual purity definitions had to be overlooked.”

“What about prisoners who are already married?” Ron asked. “If we’ve all been forcibly bonded to someone from your lot, what’s happened to previously married couples?”

“Your parents are fine.”

“How do you know that? And it’s not just them. Bill, my brother, for instance.”

“Ok, first off, The Dar—oops. The one masterminding everything, he lied about your bestie being the only person on that side of the argument who is still alive and uncaptured. I should have been clear before. Your parents are unaccounted for, presumed safe. Also your sister.”

That was a relief. Ron hoped Ginny and Harry were together. They had been the last time he’d seen them – together and almost as deeply in love as he was with Draco. 

“I saw Bill and Fleur captured, though. Remus and Tonks, too.”

“The thing is, Bonding’s a very ancient, Pure kind of ceremony. I bet they’d just done Muggle-style wedding vows or something. The Bond supersedes that.”

“So they’ll have to be unfaithful?” They would be hating that. Guilt began to curdle in Ron’s stomach.

“They’ll be alive. Stop worrying about other people. Who can we effectively look after?”

“Just ourselves, nobody else,” Ron conceded. It was true. His family were alive. That was the main thing. He allowed that thought to reassure him. If the war had gone on any longer they might all have ended up like Charlie.

“Good. Now.” Draco sat up. “I’m feeling far less daunted by this room, but I have some ghosts to lay elsewhere in the house. Shall we start with the dining room?”

Ron cast a rainbow light show over the dark, gloomy room, while Draco transformed the long table into a divan. They tried out several positions on it, culminating in Ron riding Draco reverse cowgirl. After that they were both starving. The House Elves who brought them the fish and chips (of which Lucius had, apparently, always disapproved) looked shocked at the changes to the room and the nudity of their new masters. Ron conjured fleece blankets and they fell asleep with greasy fingers.

When the sun woke them next morning, they both wanted to shower. Too lethargic to walk upstairs, Draco conjured one in the downstairs loo. Drowsy and naked together in the confined space, warm and wet, their hands found each other’s cocks, stroking, jerking and smoothing them to climax. Ron held Draco close afterwards, kissing him and nosing his wet hair. He had never expected to love anyone this much, and he had never expected the person he fell for to be the snobby, prissy bully he’d been at school with. The war had changed them both, worn them down, left them in shapes which fitted perfectly together. He turned off the water and summoned two towels.

Which was when it happened. They became aware of a glittering on the other side of the toilet bowl. Fluttering about a foot above the marble tiles of the floor, were a collection of mostly gilt, leaf-shaped objects. A few of them were turquoise, three were red. Black cursive letters covered the uppermost side of all of them. 

They both, wordlessly, crouched down to read them.

“Gregory Goyle,” said Draco, frowning.

“Antonin Dolohov, Astoria Greengrass,” Ron replied, just as confused. The strangeness scared him. He tensed for danger.

“Augustus Rookwood, Theo Nott, Corban Yaxley, Millicent Bulstrode.” Draco looked at Ron. “How have we —? Do you think…?”

“Are you going to turn one over or am I?”

Draco’s face showed first understanding, then fear, then confusion again. Finally he retrieved his wand from the shower tray and tentatively reached with it for the gold leaf marked with Millicent Bulstrode’s name. Written in white on the underside was _Seamus Finnegan_.

“Poor bastard,” Ron said.

“Could be worse. So, do we think this means they’re Bonded?”

“Wouldn’t that make sense?” None of this made sense. “Where’s our one? If there’s one with our names on it then we can probably be pretty sure.”

They found Draco’s name on a red leaf. Ron’s name was on the other side.

“But why is it red?” Ron asked. He was still wary, but something energised was waking in him too, something of the thrill he’d felt during his adventures with Harry and Hermione when they were schoolchildren. There was a mystery to be solved.

“Check the other crimson ones. Here! Pansy and –” Draco turned the leaf over with his wand. “Who’s Colin Creevey?”

“He’s a little kid. Year below us. Oh, yeah, so he must be an adult now, too, actually, I suppose. I haven’t seen him in ages.”

“Is he good-looking enough for Pansy?”

“I told you, I haven’t seen him in years. And anyway, that’s not a very high bar, she looks like a pug.”

“Oh, yeah? Well your friends are uglier!”

There was a pause. “I think we may have lost focus,” Draco said.

“Right. We need to know why we are one of three – oh, no it’s four now – red leaves, what the turquoise ones mean –”

“Why we’ve got these in our new shower room—” Draco added.

“Right. Right.”

They stared at the shimmering, fluttering shapes for a moment. One of the turquoise ones turned gold.

“Eau de Nile turns bronze, bronze turns crimson. I wonder whether they can change back, or is that some kind of sequence?” Draco murmured.

“What’s Eau de Nile?”

“That colour.”

“Turquoise.”

“Almost.”

“Bluey-green.”

“Is that the most important—?”

“Fuck!”

“What?”

Ron tipped one of the turquoise leaf shapes over and over. “Carrow,” he said. “Whatever this colour is, whatever it means, it applies to my friend and that Carrow bastard.”

Draco stood. “Right. You have a look through. Make a list. Who’s paired with who and what is their colour? I’m off to the library, to research traditional symbolic colour significances.”

It was grounding to have a job to do, something straightforward and essential. Draco came back a few minutes later, levitating a large, open tome in front of him. By then Ron was kneeling on a scroll which was spattered with ink because he couldn’t seem to stop his hand from shaking as he listed his friends and their captors. He had just written Umbridge’s name and was steeling himself.

“How many times,” Draco asked, “Do you think we have had sex?”

“What, ever?”

“No. Since the Bonding.”

Ron sat back on his heels. This was much tastier food for thought. The consummation was on the first day, then on the second day there was breakfast, bath, lunch, study, dining room, then the shower this morning. “Seven.”

“That’s what I make it. Could be the key. Seven is a magically significant number.”

And, Ron remembered with a shudder, Voldemort could detect when they had sex. He wrote the four letters of Fred’s name without looking at them, supressing images of his brother with Umbridge, deliberately concentrating his thoughts on the sex he himself had been having recently instead.

“Draco, I just realised it’s day three. What did you say was important about day three?”

Draco was intently working his way through the index. “Told you that’s not relevant because we consummated.”

“But if someone doesn’t?”

“Blue rash.”

“Oh. Ok. Thanks.” Ron nudged Fred’s leaf behind him, selected another turquoise one. He stopped moving, suddenly feeling sick. “What shade of blue?”

“It’s described as being like a sea in the distance. The shapes are kind of marbled in waves, too. What on earth is the matter?” Draco had finally looked up from his reading.

Ron simply the lifted the two leaves closest to him. “A greenish blue then? This colour?”

“Maybe.” Draco sounded excited, but then he looked at Ron’s face. “What is it, darling, what’s the matter?”

Ron couldn’t speak. He just showed him the names on the two leaves: _Frederic Weasley_ and _Hermione Granger_.

“Oh. Well. If your theory is correct then at least you know she’s not being violently raped by Carrow. I thought that was what you were worried about.”

“They’ll be dead in four days’ time and they have no idea!”

“We don’t know. We don’t know that.”

“Is Carrow still at Hogwarts?”

“No, his sister’s there, but he’s doing something at Godric’s Hollow. Why? Oh no. No. Just ourselves and…”

“We have to at least warn her.”

“That one there just went red.” Draco picked it up. “Oh. Blaise.”

“What do you, Blaise and Pansy have in common? Who are the other two red ones?”

Draco didn’t answer. He turned the leaf over. “Lavender Brown. Yeah. He always did fancy her.”

“It was mutual,” Ron said. “Good to know we’re not the only ones enjoying this.”

Draco looked thoughtful. “I said crimson; you said red. But what if we called this colour scarlet? What might it signify then?”

“My Auntie Muriel used to call girls in short skirts scarlet women.”

“Yes. It’s the colour of the Whore of Babylon,” Draco said. 

“So slutty? Is that what you have in common with Pansy and Blaise?”

“I’m in love! It’s hardly the same. Not like those two. And if I’m slutty then so are you.”

“But might their appetites be similar to yours?”

Draco sighed. “Yes. Yes. That is exactly what I was thinking.”

Ron paused, quill poised. “Turquoise for zero times, red for seven or more, gold for every number in between. Yes?”

Draco nodded. “But why are we seeing it?” he asked.

Ron kept writing while he tried to work that one out. Finally, he thought he might have something. “As a reward for shagging so much?” His brain was more awake now than it had been in months. “No, from his point of view, it shows his trust in your obedience, because he’ll be assuming you’ve raped me into submission.”

Draco’s lip curled. “You do have a way with words.”

“Am I wrong?”

Draco closed the book and tipped his head back. “No,” he said to the ceiling. “That will be the way he sees it, I expect. Except that, the only rewards he ever gives out are always designed to serve some other purpose. Usually it’s to punish someone else. For example, I have my title and house because that humiliates my father.” Draco looked sad, so Ron scooted up next to him and put an arm round him. They looked at each other for a moment until Draco smiled. 

Draco opened his book again. “There always were too many prisoners for him to keep track of. I expect he wants us to oversee everyone. Something like that.”

Ron nodded. “That makes sense.” He squeezed his beloved. “So?”

“So?”

“What about a trip to Godric’s Hollow?”

“Just ourselves, remember? Typical interfering Gryffindor notions—”

“Surely you can drop by for a visit–?”

“I thought I’d cured you –”

“Don’t you forearm-tattoo types socialise with each other?”

“Just turn up there with you in tow?”

“You can’t leave me here! You’re my warder, remember?”

“Oh Merlin! Alright, alright, but just the one visit, just to check. And only because this,” he indicated the leaves, “probably means the boss is focussed on other things currently. I’m not going to Umbridge’s afterwards.”

“Sure, sure.”

“What’s our excuse for turning up there?”

“You’re Lord Malfoy. You’re a Big Shot now.” Draco didn’t look as flattered as Ron had hope he would. He continued anyway. “Can’t you just go around demanding lesser DEs give you stuff?”

“That’s not a bad idea. He might have some potions ingredients, I suppose. They’ve been difficult to get hold of recently, I’ve had people turning up here trying to get dragon scales, wormwood, that sort of thing.” Draco sounded slightly less dubious than he had done. “I suppose you’d better wear the collar for appearance’s sake, stop anyone asking why you look so well cared-for.”

Hermione looked scared and starved, but undamaged, when Ron glimpsed her behind stony-faced Carrow, who answered the door. That was a relief. Draco and Carrow went to sit in the parlour while Ron stayed in the kitchen with Hermione, making a pot of tea.

“Are you ok?” he asked. Of course she wasn’t healthy and happy, and Ron knew that was partly his fault, but he wanted her to reassure him that things weren’t too awful.

Hermione shrugged. “Well, I’m exhausted. But I’ve managed to hold him off, so it could be more disgusting.”

That meant they were probably right about the meaning of the turquoise leaves. “How?” Ron asked.

Hermione checked the corridor and lowered her voice. “He’s Imperiused.”

Ron was stunned. “What? How? The wands are traced. Oh, yeah, so are certain words.”

“Well, I’d assumed that much! I’m not an idiot.” She swallowed. “I mastered it. Controlled, wandless magic, I mean. I always told you it was possible, didn’t I?”

“You are thoroughly, thoroughly brilliant.”

“I know.” Her gaunt face brightened with pride.

He shouldn’t have worried. Draco was right, Hermione really was very resourceful. “And you’re sure you are ok?” he checked. Then, remembering: “No, um, blue rash or anything?”

She looked startled. “Oh. Well. I thought that was to do with me being run down.” She lowered the ragged T-shirt remnants at her left shoulder. Running brightly under her skin was a silvery, ocean-coloured series of undulating lines.

Ron’s spirits plummeted again. “What do you know about Supervised Bonding?”

“Nothing! I can’t research anything! This moron,” she indicated the parlour with her head, “Does not own a single book.”

Ron told her everything she needed to know.

“I’ll have to read up about this,” she said eventually. “Where can I find a library?”

“Malfoy Manor is pretty well equipped.”

So, they abandoned the tea and the Carrows came visiting straight away. Amycus slumped, expressionless, on a bench in the chilly billiards room, and Hermione established herself in the green leather solemn splendour of the library. Draco was worried that Voldemort would question their movements, but Ron reminded him that they wouldn’t have been given all the information on the leaves if the Bonded had currently been the Dark Lord’s priority. He hoped, silently, that Voldemort’s shift of focus didn’t mean that he was closer to finding Harry.

“Why bother with Bonding at all?” Hermione mused. “Why not just kill us?”

“Draco says we’re bait.”

“Oh, is it Draco now? You two seem to be getting along rather nicely. Lucky you. Bait for what?”

“For our mutual best friend. So he’ll come and rescue us. Break cover.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, “To allow for the Great Battle of the prophesy, I suppose.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Ok. Thanks for the books. You’d better run along and keep your master satisfied, I suppose.”

“You don’t have to be like that, Her.”

“I really didn’t expect you to be quite so pleased about being buggered, but I suppose it explains why you and I didn’t work out as a couple all those years ago. Oh! I just had a thought!”

About his sex life? Ron hoped not. It wasn’t, though. It was this: “If our friend loses that Great Battle, and the one running the show gets complete victory, then he’ll have no more use for us. What happens then?”

“How should I know?” Ron muttered as he escaped her presence. He loved her, but she could be very sharp sometimes. Especially when she was in the right and he was in the wrong. He hoped she wouldn’t work out exactly how wrong. He was finding it harder and harder to argue himself out of feeling guilty.

He looked for the one person who could always cheer him up and convince him that their plan had been a good one. Draco was studying the leaves floating in the shower room again.

There was Fred’s leaf: still turquoise. Ron picked it up.

“No,” Draco said, “I said we _wouldn’t_ go to Umbridge’s apartment afterwards. Remember?”

Ron composed his best begging face, the one where he looked adorable, the one Draco couldn’t resist. Draco swore, but Ron knew he’d won.

Dolores Umbridge wrinkled her nose when she saw who was on her doorstep.

“Come along, woman,” Draco sneered back.

She ducked her head and allowed them into her apartment. So Draco was really very high up in the Death Eaters. Or had she disgraced herself somehow and slipped down in the rankings? She eyed Ron with disgust as he was tugged in on the chained neck collar.

Sitting on a plump pink sofa, though, Ron realised that there was a very unpleasant smell in the place. So perhaps that was why she was pulling those faces.

“Your Bond-mate is related to mine,” Draco said bluntly.

“How do you know who my mate is?” She looked scared.

“I know a great deal.” Draco left that sentence to hang in the air being considered for a minute, before adding, “I know that you have failed to do your duty by completing the Bonding ceremony, for instance.”

“It’s impossible!” she snapped.

“Careful. Mind your tone,” Draco said with menacing softness.

Ron hadn’t seen his lover like this before. He knew he ought to disapprove, but in fact it was surprisingly arousing.

“Obeying our lord is never impossible,” Draco continued. There was another pause. Then he added. “You will die in four days if you—”

“I know! I know!” Umbridge took in a deep, shaky breath. Then she stood. “I’ll show you,” she said.

They trooped down a long, dark corridor towards the back of the building. The smell got stronger and more awful as they progressed. Ron kept his head lowered deferentially. That meant that he could watch Umbridge’s ankles weakening above her coral low-heeled court shoes with every tidy little step. Eventually she stopped, calves twitching within the tight restraint of her nylons, several feet back from a narrow door. Ron could taste the rancid air on his teeth.

“He’s in there,” Umbridge said. “I won’t go in again.”

Umbridge’s footsteps clicked away on the tiled floor behind them. Ron opened the door a crack. The stench flooded over him. It was like rotting flesh, campsite toilets and fish markets in high summer combined. What the hell was Fred up to? And how did he stand it?

“You can’t leave them to parlay unsupervised,” Umbridge called from twenty feet away. She had regained a little of the strident confidence of her days as headmistress.

“Obviously.” Draco was clearly going for a Snape-inspired sneer, but spoiled it by coughing the end of the word.

“They could plot!”

“I’m supervising,” Draco ground out through gritted teeth. He waved his wand. A strong scent of roses mingled with the stink. It did not improve it.

Ron placed a hand over his nose and mouth before fully opening the door of the putrid cupboard.

“More food at last? What swill is it this time you toxic old cow?” 

Ron was rinsed with guilt at the sound of Fred’s cheerful, unmistakable, voice. His face was unrecognisable, though, covered in boils and pustules. 

“Bloody hell! Ronnikins!” Fred sat upright from the slouch he had been in against the wall. “Nice necktie you’ve got there.”

“What in Morgana’s clap clinic have you done to yourself?” Ron asked. “You know you stink, right?”

“Keeping unwanted advances at bay. We developed it for witches walking home on their own at night. Come into its own now, hasn’t it? Lucky I always keep a few product samples about my person. Is that Malfoy? Oh, dear, you did draw the short straw, you poor bastard.”

Draco spluttered behind Ron. There could have been a number of reasons for that.

“Compared to Umbridge? I don’t think I’m doing too badly, actually,” Ron managed. He hated to think what Fred’s reaction was going to be if he ever discovered just how lucky Ron was and why. “How do you bear the smell?” he asked to change subject.

“You get used to it,” Fred said. “Got any news about George?”

George’s leaf was gold, but it would have required too much explanation to pass on that information to Fred. He’d been Bonded to Lucian Bole, so at least they’d be able to talk Quidditch. Bole wasn’t bad looking, and had given the impression of only going along with the Death Eating because he was scared not to. Ron wasn’t worried about George. He had no idea how George would be feeling about the sex, though.

“I’ve got a lot to tell you,” Ron said, “but I can’t put up with this smell much longer.” 

“It’s kept her off me, though.”

“Have you got a blue rash?” Draco asked crisply from behind Ron.

“Bit difficult to tell, to be honest, Ferret. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Look for one, please,” Ron begged, wishing that just for once Fred could do what he was told. “Might be on your shoulder. Her’s is.” Ron warily plucked at the faded remnants of a dragon skin lapel.

“Who’s she? What are you on about? Don’t look at my magnificent pecs, Ferret.”

Under all the red hair and suppurating skin of Fred’s chest, silvery turquoise waves twinkled through his skin.

Ron slumped to the floor. “It means you have to bonk her.”

“Or what?” Fred was still belligerent.

“Or you’ll die,” Draco said coldly from the doorway. “Come on, Ron. Let’s leave them to it.”

“Those are the only options?” Fred sounded a bit upset, but only a bit.

Ron considered a consoling hug, but decided against getting so close to festering flesh. “Maybe. Probably. That certain bookish young witch we know is researching. Don’t say the name – it’s probably one of the signal words for getting spied on. But you know who I mean.”

“What’s going on?” Fred asked. “I thought I had this under control.”

“Supervised Bonding. Pureblood magic. Come on, Ron. I’d really like to breathe sometime soon.”

“Ok. We’ll go to Pansy’s. Bye, Fred.”

“Bye, Ron! Sorry I’ve got no repellent left to offer you.”

When they got onto the street, they gulped down a few lung-fuls of traffic fumes before speaking.

“I dread to think what he meant by ‘about his person’ given that you were all strip searched when you were captured,” Draco said. “And we are not doing any more visiting. We are going home. Can we go back to caring about Just Ourselves now?”

“No,” Ron said. 

He couldn’t, not anymore. He’d put in his best effort at being selfish, at concentrating on joy, but now he’d seen Hermione and Fred he couldn’t ignore the positions he’d put them in anymore; he couldn’t forget about everyone he cared about. He couldn’t imagine any other way he could have stopped the war, but he deeply regretted betraying the positions of the safe houses now. Draco had persuaded him to do the wrong thing, now he was determined to persuade Draco to do the right thing with him.

He and Draco faced off for almost a minute while cars and buses drove past them. Finally Draco relaxed. “Fine,” he said. “But then we go home. Let’s find an alleyway to Apparate in.”

Pansy opened the door of her maisonette looking sweaty and wearing a cream silk dressing gown.

“Hi Draco! Just in the middle of something, actually.”

Draco wrinkled his nose. “If it’s the same thing you’ve been up almost continually for the last couple of days, then I’m sure you’ll manage to get back to it as soon as we’ve left. We won’t be here long.”

“You got the leaves, too, then?” Pansy laughed. “Who knew you could get so keen on ginger?” She led them into a hallway and shouted “Make yourself decent; we’ve got guests!”

They sat in the sitting room, where the curtains were closed and the floor strewn with cushions and candle-stubs. Pansy offered them water half-heartedly, but didn’t look keen to move from her prone position on a rumpled sofa, so they declined.

“You worked out what the leaves mean?” Draco asked. “Where are yours?”

“Kitchen counter. Yeah, think so, more interesting things to do than watch them, though.”

Ron was glad he hadn’t accepted a glass of water, considering what must have been happening on that kitchen counter.

“Your little friend still hiding away?” Pansy asked him mockingly. “Too scared to come rescue you?”

“What do you think will happen,” he asked her, “if he does?”

“Look, I know he’s done some seemingly impossible things in the past, but you can’t think he’d survive showing his face now?”

“Probably not,” Ron conceded. “And then what? What happens to us?” He should have thought about this more when Hermione had asked that question, but he’d been feeling too sorry for himself at the time.

“Our leader is generally pretty merciless with enemies who have served their purpose,” Pansy said lazily. “Which is a shame, because I’m having a very good time with Colin. Ah! There you are, poppet.”

Colin Creevey stumbled into the room. He had certainly grown up, blossomed in fact. He must have spent the war years doing something pretty physical because he’d managed to build a lot of muscle. He barely had the strength to bear his own weight at the minute, though. He collapsed onto the arm of Pansy’s sofa. He leaned towards Ron.

“Hi! How are you doing?” he asked. He was looking at the iron collar.

Ron decided it would be a good idea to stay noncommittal for the moment. “Ok, I suppose. You?”

“It’s brilliant,” Colin whispered. “I never had time for, you know, a girlfriend or anything before. Sex is bloody amazing, isn’t it?”

“Hang on! No. That can’t be right,” Draco said.

“You can’t be doing it properly, then, cos it bloody is amazing,” Colin said.

“Not that,” Draco said.

“He definitely is doing it properly,” Ron mumbled, loyally and honestly, but not wanted to steer the conversation any further off track.

“Not that,” Draco repeated tetchily. “If his lordship is victorious then he can’t kill the prisoners.”

“Well, of course he will, darling, but it’s a depressing thing to talk about, so let’s not,” said Pansy, sitting up.

“But we’re Bonded to them. We’d die too. He wouldn’t do that to us,” Draco replied.

Colin’s eyes closed. “Don’t suppose he’ll need soldiers when he’s won the war.”

A bolt of energy sent Pansy sitting upright. “What do you mean, gorgeous one?”

“What’ll be the point in him having so many followers once the war’s over? He’ll be focussed on crushing any possible rebellion. Haven’t you seen Star Wars? The Empire always Strikes Back. He won’t mind losing a load of you so long as he gets rid of all of us.”

“No, no, no!” Draco was holding his head. “The war ends, peace comes, we live happily ever after together.”

Ron listened to Draco voicing what they had spent this year secretly believing together. With the words out in the open, after what Colin had said, it sounded ridiculous.

“We’d better get back,” he said to Draco. They needed to see if Hermione had found them a way out. “We’ll be in touch if there’s a solution. We might need your help. For now, we’ll leave you two to it.”

Pansy looked too rattled though. She looked as though, for the first time in three days, she might be thinking about something other than fucking.

She wasn’t the only one. Ron and Draco spent a fairly sleepless night holding each other. Every so often they would kiss or Draco would say, “Just ourselves and nobody else,” but their mantra sounded hollow now.

In the middle of the next morning, Ron gave Hermione a cup of coffee and Draco brought her some books from a list she’d given him, because she refused to give direct orders to House Elves. The blue rash was working its way up the side of her neck towards her left ear now. It lapped at her skin as she spoke.

“I actually think it’s going to work in our favour that he’s chosen Supervised Bonding, not the Traditional kind,” she said. “I’ve found reference to a way to break this type of Bonding.”

Ron saw his own devastation mirrored in Draco’s face.

“For goodness sake! Obviously we are going to have to break the Bonds.” Hermione’s head tipped to one side as she looked shrewdly at Ron. “Why wouldn’t you want that?”

“Of course we want that!” Ron heard his own unconvincing defensiveness.

“We? Why would you try to speak for both of you? Look at you two! How does this even happen after only half a week together?”

Ron stepped further away from Draco, looked at the floor, then towards the window. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Can’t you get on with telling us what you’ve discovered? You always do this. It drives me round the bend.”

“You look like a couple. You act like a couple,” Hermione insisted.

“Well, we’re Bond-mates.” Draco started moving towards the door.

“No. You are a well-established couple. Aren’t you? Completely comfortable together. This isn’t a new relationship, is it?”

“You’re talking bollocks,” Ron snapped.

“It would serve you well to get your evil-worshipping husband to do the lying for you, Won-Won. You’re terrible at it.” Hermione noisily cracked a few pages while she turned them. “How long have you been screwing? How many months of the war did you spend sneaking off to… to… fraternise?!”

“It wasn’t like that,” Draco said sharply.

“Wasn’t it? Look at me,” she said to Ron, “you… you… what was it he used to call you? Weasel wasn’t it? That’s feeling pretty bloody accurate.”

Ron looked at her. He knew it was a mistake. “A few months,” he found himself muttering.

“You were having an affair with an enemy soldier for months?” Hermione sounded stunned, as though she hadn’t really believed what she’d been saying before. “What a stupid risk to take! You compromised security, for what? Sex? I know it’s a long time since we tried it, but I never got the feeling you were that interested in sex. You traitor! Idiot! Bastard! What a total bloody betrayal. Oh Merlin!” She clapped a hand over her mouth and her eyes went wide.

She had worked it out. He knew from her face. She knew who had surrendered the Order to the Death Eaters by giving them access to all the safe houses. Ron didn’t have the strength to try to deny it and he could no longer justify it. He staggered out of the library instead.

Draco found him crying in their marriage bed.

“You did the right thing,” he said, putting his arm round Ron’s shoulder. “The fighting has stopped. We are together. Just Ourselves, remember, that’s the maximum number of people we can save. Nobody Else.”

“But we’re not even saved, are we?” And Ron no longer believed that two was enough people, anyway, no matter how much he loved Draco.

“It’s all going to be fine. She’s worked out a way to break the Supervised Bond. We’ll survive. Then we’ll just have to have a Tradition Bonding ceremony afterwards.” Draco kissed Ron’s tear-soaked cheek. “I love you. I don’t care about anyone or anything else. I just love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you too,” Ron mumbled. He knew, though, that he did still care about his family and friends, too. He realised, too late, that he cared very much about the outcome of the war. It mattered that Voldemort did not win. The fact that that would be a death sentence for them both just showed how important it was that someone so wicked was not in charge of the world.

They held each other without speaking for a while. Ron was trying to work out how to tell Draco how wrong they had been. Then Hermione crashed through the door to their sanctuary.

She pointed at Draco. “I need you to call him!”

“What’s going on?” Ron asked her.

“Still not speaking to you. I need Malfoy’s controller here now. Well not here, in the billiards room.”

“How am I supposed to manage that?” Draco asked, standing and hastily wiping his face with his sleeve.

“Can’t you lot all…?” Hermione tapped at her forearm with her finger. Her hand and arm were both covered with undulating pale blue lines.

“With what excuse?” Draco asked.

“I’ll leave that up to you. You’re highly skilled at mendacity.” Hermione marched out of the room. 

Draco followed her, so Ron dragged his weary limbs out of the bed and made his way down the stairs behind them both.

“Have you worked out how to break the Bond?” Draco was asking.

“Isn’t it obvious? We have to eliminate the one supervising it.”

Draco stopped completely still right in front of Ron. Ron put his arms round Draco’s stiff shoulders. He broke out of Ron’s hug to trot after Hermione saying, “You can’t do that.”

“I have to do that. I’m so sorry that it will put you on the losing side after all. Oh, no, hang on: I’m not. I’m very pleased about that.”

“I mean that you’re not the person who can do that. The prophecy—!” 

Hermione tossed her head “Divination’s not real magic. I’ve never believed in any of that nonsense.”

“But how will you?” Draco spluttered, after a stunned minute. “Isn’t that what your side has been unsuccessfully trying to do for ages? What’s different now?”

“It’ll probably help if you lend me a wand.”

“But still…”

Ron held out the wand Draco had given him.

“No, no. Keep that. You’ll need to defend yourself if she’s serious. I’ve got others.” Draco went into the study.

Hermione went to the billiards room, so Ron followed her. Carrow was still sitting on the bench under the window, staring at nothing. His skin shimmered with pale blue waves.

“You really think you can do it?” Ron asked.

She just looked at him with disgust.

“Look.” This was going to be difficult to say. “I’m sorry, ok? I did something terrible. Misguided. I made a dreadful mistake. And I am very sorry.”

She looked furious for a moment. He waited to be screamed at, or attacked by birds. But then her face froze back to an expressionless cold hate which was worse.

“This goes way beyond anything you can apologise for. And I do not have the time to explain that to you, if you really don’t get it,” she said. She opened a book on one of the billiard tables at a book-marked page, started running a finger under a line of text. She wasn’t actually looking at the words, though. She was glaring at a scorch-mark on the baize.

“Hermione, please. You’re probably about to commit suicide – and, if you persuade him to use his Mark to call, you’ll get my Bond-mate and, therefore, me killed in the process – so this is the only chance I’m likely to get—”

“I will never forgive you,” she growled. 

She looked towards the door of the room, where Draco was entering.

Ron tried again, “We thought it was for the best. The war had to stop and the rebels were not going to win it. Too many deaths, too much horror. By passing on the information, I was meant to be ending all that.”

“It didn’t work,” she snapped.

“I know,” he said. “And the price wasn’t worth it anyway. It was a miscalculation, a massive, horrific one, but I had good intentions and I am so, so sorry now.”

“It could still work,” Draco said, offering Hermione a selection of wands.

She held her hand over them and closed her eyes. She selected a gnarled, reddish brown one.

Draco put an arm round Ron. “You were very brave, my love. You shouldn’t regret anything. We did the right thing.”

“You would say that!” Hermione screamed. Finally her anger had broken through. “Your side won, we were utterly defeated, and you got to marry your fuck toy! Of course you still think it was a good idea.” She deflated. “But I can’t for the life of me see why he,” she waved a dismissive hand towards Ron, “went along with it.” She stood straight again. “Which doesn’t matter because, as I said we haven’t got time for this.”

“Until I call him, we’ve got all day,” Draco said. “What’s your hurry?”

She jabbed angry fingers at her arms, hands and face, which were all shimmering like a chilly ocean. “This is draining me. I’ll need all the strength I can muster behind the killing spell.”

“You really think you’ll manage it? Against him?” Draco asked.

“What’s another Unforgivable?” Hermione asked dully. “And I will most certainly be meaning it.”

“Have you used it before?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“It’s difficult. When it comes to it,” Draco said.

Hermione sniffed scornfully. “I’m not a frightened schoolboy on an Astronomy tower facing a good man who’s done no harm. I’ve got plenty of hate for this.”

Briefly, Draco was as red as the leaf with their names on it. He took a deep breath. Ron looked at his bright, living face. His ribs clenched. He did not want Draco to die. He wanted them to live together into old age, happy, settled, loving each other. They had not had long enough together.

“So what’s the plan?” Draco asked, while he calmed himself.

“You sure you can get him here and distract him?” she asked.

“I’m going to ask for permission to execute Carrow, on the grounds that he has been unable to fulfil the completion of your Bond, which is a refusal to obey orders.”

Hermione nodded crisply.

They were both so calm. Ron didn’t know how they could both be so calm.

Draco swallowed. “As he sent us the leaves, that must mean he wants me to take some control of the Bondings. It makes enough sense for me to call him to ask that.” Draco shook his head. “Only just enough, because I could have Owled and the unfulfilled Bond will kill Carrow soon anyway. You’ll have to act quickly, because it won’t take him long to suspect a trap. I can direct his attention towards Carrow on the bench here, make sure he’s looking in that direction. You should probably be on the other side of the room, or behind me or something, so he won’t see you pointing the wand.”

Hermione positioned herself under a billiard table with the wand hidden up her sleeve. Ron desperately wanted her forgiveness, though he didn’t deserve it, or at least a truce. He needed the security of her friendship, the blessing of her good opinion, back. He couldn’t think of any other way to ask for it, though. He had tried everything he could think of. Instead he asked “Shouldn’t I be wearing the collar?”

Draco nodded. “Come here,” he said, though. He kissed Ron’s cheek. “Whatever happens…” He stopped speaking.

If all went right, there would be plenty of time for them to say they loved each other. If, as was more likely, this plan failed, then they would both die instantly, so there would be no time to remember that they hadn’t said it now.

“I’ll get the collar and come back,” Ron said. “Don’t do anything without me.”

As he walked across the room, Hermione suddenly said, “I don’t understand how. I mean, we were on the same missions, in the same camps, hanging out together all the time. I’ve had no sex life at all since we split up, which is – what? – two and a half years ago? Well, hardly any. Two hurried, unsatisfying one night stands. With members of our side, people we were living with, who were easy to find. How on earth did you two manage to conduct a liaison spanning months, how did you develop a relationship this close, this settled?”

“It’s a long story,” Draco said brusquely, already pulling up the left sleeve of his robe. “It can wait.”

“I thought you weren’t in a rush,” Hermione said. “How can it be a long story?”

“Goathland,” Ron said. “When I was wearing the glamour.”

“That was nearly a year ago. You said a couple of months.”

“I said a few months.”

“This is really not the time!” Draco pointed to the door. “Go and put the collar on, Ron. I don’t want him getting suspicious.”

“Give me this,” Ron said. “I mean, the house is lovely and I really appreciate the wand, and more than any of that I’m grateful for your love, but give me a few minutes now, please.”

“What’s the point?” Draco asked.

“I broke something precious to me, I broke her trust and our friendship. I just want to try. This might be my last chance. I want to try to fix what I broke.” Ron’s voice quavered. He couldn’t look at either of them.

“Would you like me to leave the room for a few minutes?” Draco asked tenderly.

“No, stay,” Ron said. He did look at him then. 

Then he sat next to Hermione and he tried to explain. He listed all the half-hours he and Draco had stolen from the war to be together.

“It wasn’t just sex,” he said. “We both needed…” He couldn’t explain it. “We gave each other…”

“It was something beautiful,” Draco said then, “in the middle of all that horror. Someone worth staying alive for.”

“It’s been horrific for everyone,” Hermione said. “The rest of us survived without undermining our comrades.”

“Some of us didn’t,” Ron reminded her softly. “Most people aren’t as strong as you. I’m more like Parvarti. Or Lee. I would have ended up like one of them if I hadn’t had the escape – not that, that’s the wrong word – the warmth – no, not that either. Love: that’s what I’m trying to say. Draco’s love is what kept me going.”

“You’re stronger than either of them,” Hermione insisted.

“I’m really not. Very few are. But you are. You turned your grief and anger into determination. You’ll use it to power the killing curse. I needed something, someone, else. I found him. Once I had, I couldn’t let him go.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “And then you came up with a bloody stupid, destructive plan, to put an end to all the horridness?”

Ron nodded. “And it was terrible, because it meant sacrificing almost everyone I love. I am so, so sorry.”

“I believe you are,” Hermione said. Which was probably as close to forgiveness as Ron could expect to get.

“We have one last chance to make our actually perfectly good plan work,” Draco said. “We’d better get on with it.” He kissed Ron’s cheek. “Go and get the collar from the dressing room.”

Ron nodded. He gave Draco one last, brief, look of love, and Hermione one of friendship, as she crawled further under the billiard table, her skin almost completely blue now. Then he hurried from the room.

He was on the landing when he heard the crack of an Apparition. He hesitated a moment, wondering, panicked, why they hadn’t waited for him, not sure whether to continue on through the bedroom doors, or to go back downstairs. Then there was a huge, green explosion and he was flung backwards into darkness.

He woke coughing, in rubble and dust, astonished. He had not expected to wake; he had thought that he was dead.

“Draco!” he called. His throat was clagged. The damp sound echoed in the emptiness. No reply.

He dragged himself to all fours. He was disorientated. Nothing looked familiar. There were no stairs. There was no roof. He had no idea where the billiards room was. Plaster chunks scraped his knees. He remembered about cushioning charms, and about his wand. He broke his fingernails finding it, bleeding scarlet onto the grey, lunar floor. He sat back, as calm as he could make himself, to cast air clearing spells, to take in his surroundings, to try to make sense.

If Ron was alive then, surely, Voldemort must be dead. That was good. Ron gave himself time to absorb a truth he had, for years, thought of as impossible. If Voldemort was dead, though, then Ron’s Bond with Draco would be broken. What if the Manor had collapsed onto Draco after the Bond broke? No. No, not after all this. Draco had to be alive. Ron didn’t want to live on without him.

He rose to a shaky stand and began to pick his way through the ruins in what he thought was the right direction. Timbers creaked. He passed a torn, empty canvas in a mahogany frame. Spots of rain fell on him. He held back tears, picking his way round disembodied limbs of furniture in silence, apart from a scrap of green silk flapping like a flag. Eventually, finally, after a stretch of time he could not numerate, he saw something which might have been baize. He pointed his shaking wand at the ground there and started, painfully slowly, to levitate debris, not daring to hope, without the strength to despair.

A dusty hand thrust upwards out of the ruins. Ron bounded over to it. He lifted masonry away from it as a body struggled up from underneath it. At his first sight of bushy brown hair, he felt sick with disappointment, then thoroughly ashamed of himself for that. He dragged Hermione out and held her tight. He was on the verge of sobbing but, to his surprise, she started to laugh.

“I did it! Ron! I was right! The prophesy was garbage, just like everything else Trelawny ever said, god rest her stupid soul.” 

Hermione was gabbling. Ron realised that there was a hysterical edge to her laughter.

“Voldemort’s dead?” he checked.

“Yes!”

“And—” his voice broke, he could barely ask, “and Draco?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Look at the place.”

“What happened?”

She shrugged. “I mis-hit first time, cracked the wall. I am so tired.”

“You’re not blue anymore.”

She looked along her arms, rubbed off the plaster dust and looked again. “I’m not. I’ll live. That’s nice.”

“I’m going to look for Draco.” Ron resumed clearing.

“He shielded me. After that first shot went wrong. He was pretty brilliant, actually. Heroic almost. I still don’t like him.” Hermione checked her sleeve. “I’ve lost the wand. If you summon me a wand, I’ll help you. I don’t think I could have done it without him.”

“Accio wand!”

Nothing appeared, but there was a trembling somewhere beneath them.

“I thought you didn’t need one anymore,” Ron said.

“Oh, I’m too tired for that. Oh look!”

Ron looked where Hermione was pointing. A couple of feet away, stones and wood and shards of glass were moving. He ran towards them. Was it a wand answering his summons? No! There was a shoe, an ankle, a calf. Desperately, Ron started tugging at it. Hermione snatched his wand off him to decimate obstacles around it. The leg kicked its way towards them as they cleared it a path. Ron pulled, clutched fabric, pulled again, feeling tears down his face and a fluttering in his guts, until finally he pulled out Draco’s torso and then his head, which he kissed and kissed and kissed, while Hermione, more usefully, cast healing spells on the gash across his forehead and the swelling round his eye.

“I was upside down,” Draco mumbled. “Upside down.”

“I love you,” Ron said.

“I love you, too,” Draco replied, spitting out a tooth. “Let’s get Bonded.”


End file.
